Daidalos
by ElenaC
Summary: Chapter 3 added. A series of snippets exploring Daedalus's past. Each chapter can stand on its own. Rated for language and adult themes.
1. Julian

**Daidalos**

A Kindred: The Embraced Story by Elena

* * *

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, no money gained.

**Author's notes:** This story came into being because of Jeff Kober's remark that, according to his understanding of the character, Daedalus is supposed to be 3000 years old. Also, I set out to write something else entirely when I started this story, but as always, the muses had other plans. This might turn into a series of short pieces intended to explore Daedalus' past and character.

* * *

"I mastered the horseless carriage," Julian Luna muttered, frowning fiercely at the computer screen. "I will master this contraption."

There could be no doubt about it: Modern technology was finally beginning to encroach upon the elysium of the prince of San Francisco, despite the Ventrue's best efforts to halt the advance of electric machines into his house. Like all members of his bloodline, he was rooted in his past, and using such a simple thing as a coffee machine when pre-ground coffee, boiling water and filters were perfectly sufficient was still alien to him.

"I don't doubt it," came the measured tones of Julian's enforcer. Judging from the confident way he had unpacked and plugged in the new devices, Daedalus was quite at home with modern technology. But then again, he was Nosferatu. Almost all Nosferatu had taken to the advent of digitalized information like, well, like a sewer rat to water.

The two Kindred were sitting next to each other at the old wooden desk in Julian's study. All around them, empty packages and plastic wrappings lay scattered. The smell of new electronic equipment was heavy in the air.

"It's really quite simple, Julian," Daedalus went on, pointing a taloned finger at the screen in front of the two of them. "This symbol represents your word processor, your typewriter, if you will. You open it - turn it on - by clicking two times in rapid succession, using your left mouse button."

The prince looked on, frowning, as Daedalus demonstrated. "I see," he commented when a blank document appeared on the screen.

Daedalus smiled, closing the program. "Now you do it."

Gingerly, Julian put his hand over the mouse, giving it a few experimental pushes. As often happened to first-time users, he found it difficult to coordinate his movements, and it took him a while to move the mouse cursor over the symbol.

Embarrassed at his clumsiness, he cast a sidelong glance at Daedalus, but the Nosferatu was wearing his customary poker face and did not let the amusement show he must undoubtedly be feeling.

"If this were a typewriter, I'd be halfway through the letter by now," Julian muttered, eyeing the computer uneasily.

"Correction, Julian," Daedalus said, and his deep voice did sound amused now. "Jeffrey would be halfway through."

The prince conceded the point with a small smile, which widened when he managed to open the word processor after several false starts.

He then proceeded to make the usual beginner's mistake of hitting the return key at the end of each line and was thoroughly confused by the save file as dialogue. Daedalus, however, obviously had an almost unlimited store of patience, and he didn't mind explaining things three times if necessary. An hour later, Julian could access his files and even print them without mishap.

"So," the prince said when he had powered down his new computer under Daedalus' guidance. "I admit that this thing might save a little time as soon as I've gotten the hang of it."

Daedalus smiled. "This system has its shortcomings, however. If you continue to be interested in the technology, I could install one of our computer systems for you instead."

"One of yours?" Julian asked, frowning. Then his face cleared. "A Nosferatu computer?"

"Yes. They don't crash, for one thing. They're also much faster and can store more data. However, a Nosferatu file is totally unreadable on a PC - that's what this is," he added, nodding at Julian's desktop computer. "We've invented a completely different digital encoding/decoding system that would take to long to explain. Suffice it to say that it isn't binary. We don't just use ones and zeros."

"I see," Julian said slowly, even though he didn't.

Daedalus' eyes glittered in amusement. "Our computers can emulate PCs. You wouldn't notice any difference, except that with a Nosferatu computer, you'd really be halfway through a letter while this one was still powering up."

Julian regarded the tall man next to him, thinking that any prince who didn't ally himself with the Nosferatu in his domain made a grave tactical error. The Keepers of Secrets obviously not only had enormous amounts of information at their disposal, they also commanded considerable technological resources, and only a fool would allow to let all that potential go unused.

"Who taught you so much about computers, anyway?" he changed the subject. "You're so much older than me. How come you don't still use an abacus?"

"They're handy for complex calculations, it's true, but they don't surf the internet too well," Daedalus said dryly. "But to answer your question, no one taught me. I was one of the inventors."

Julian stared at him as the pieces of a puzzle he'd had no idea he was looking at suddenly fell into place. "Daedalus," he began, and then fell silent.

The Nosferatu inclined his head. "Yes," he said, his voice deep and emphatic.

For a moment, neither man said anything. Julian felt like hitting his head onto his desk. All this time, and he'd never thought to ask his friend this one simple question. It was so obvious, and still he hadn't seen it, hadn't thought far enough to make the connection.

"I had no idea," Julian finally said, shaking his head. "How stupid can you get? All this time..."

"It's not exactly something one wishes to make general knowledge," Daedalus said slowly. "As you know, the young ones tend to get overexcited at the thought of having a Methuselah in their midst."

"Daedalus," Julian whispered. "You... deferred to me. You kissed my ring..."

"As I will continue to do, Julian," the Nosferatu said, eyes wide and an expression of sincerity on his angular face. "Nothing will change with this knowledge you now have."

Julian was still incapable of getting past this enormous revelation. "I had no idea," he repeated. "You have no accent. You never said anything. No one ever said anything." He continued to stare at his friend. "I can't conceive of it. My God, three thousand years! The things you must have seen, done. My God."

"Julian," Daedalus said, uncomfortable, "this needn't change anything. I'm still the same man I was ten minutes ago."

"I know." Julian visibly shook off his awe and tried to smile. "One of these days, I'll understand why I'm prince, and not you, Daedalus."

The Nosferatu returned the smile. "That's easy. I like the peace and quiet. I never was a good statesman. Painting and dabbling in alchemy are much more to my liking."

"And inventing things, like computers. And mazes, if I remember my Greek legends correctly."

Daedalus merely looked at him, a mixture of warmth and acceptance in his gaze.

Julian nodded sharply. "Well," he said, rising. "Thanks for the crash course, my friend. And for letting me know."

Daedalus, too, rose and inclined his head. "Any time. I'd be grateful if you didn't let this become general knowledge, though."

"Of course not!"

"And should you find yourself unable to bend the computer to your will, you know where to find me."

"Thank you."

Julian watched him leave for the basement of the gatehouse.

Turning, the prince of the city regarded the chaos of boxes and plastic wrappings in his study, and the new device that now occupied his antique desk. He smiled. With this man of myth at his side, he was convinced that he would prevail against anything; even against the infernal machine and whatever else the age of technology could throw at him.


	2. Nosferatu

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the concept, the universe, or the characters of Daedalus or Camilla (rats!). All other Nosferatu present in this story, though, are mine, mine, mine!

**Author's Note:** This is the second of a series of snippets designed to explore Daedalus's past.

* * *

It is a dark and stormy night. Well, maybe. It could very well be a dark and foggy night. Or a dark and balmy one. It doesn't really matter, since the weather outside and up on the surface has no impact down here, where it's perpetually dark, dank, and silent. 

Wait, not quite silent. There's whispering, the quiet sounds of subdued conversation echoing through the narrow passageways.

A hypothetical observer following the sound would have to pick their way carefully here, where no mortal ever goes. This part of the San Francisco sewers isn't cartographed on any map accessible to human sewer workers. Every man, thing or being that ventures down here uninvited signs a death warrant.

It's eternally dark, the oppressive kind of dark that seems to lay down on your face and eyes and slowly begins to smother you. It's also chilly. The way is treacherous. Innocuous-looking puddles on the uneven floor are more often than not formed by highly corrosive acid. Shadows moving along the brick walls are cast by feral beings that don't take kindly to intruders. And they watch, always. Some walls that look solid and impenetrable are not there at all, and sometimes parts of the floor aren't there, either; and sometimes, passageways that wind beneath the city for miles without any branching tunnels abruptly end in cul-de-sacs, forcing the hypothetical intruder to backtrack for hours, becoming hopelessly lost long before that. In some cases, said hypothetical observer would be forced to slither through mud crawling with maggots and other unpleasant vermin in order to reach the next tunnel, and in other cases, the air is toxic with gases caused by decay and fungus spores and leaking gas pipes. There are live wires connected to rusting iron debris that are strewn apparently hap-hazardly but in reality follow a very precise plan. One wrong step, one hand placed on the wrong iron rung can get you killed within seconds.

This is the abode of the San Francisco Nosferatu, who at this moment are gathered at the center of this elaborate defensive web; more precisely, in the Cave Inn. It's a small, surprisingly comfortable cavern lit by dim electric lights (to accommodate Frederick, who is afraid of open flames) and filled with low benches, two sturdy tables, and several crates filled with coke bottles. Except for the pale skin of their mostly bald heads, they're hardly visible in the near-darkness, as they wear the habitual black clothes favored by the Keepers of Secrets. There are at least four of them, possibly more, since a few empty spaces are left between some of them, and anyone who knows anything at all about Nosferatu knows that they have the power to disappear at will.

"Well, I was a student," one of them says, a thin, probably male Kindred (for with Nosferatu, you can never be quite certain). "Architecture. Was doing quite well, too. Then I got sick..."

The others nod compassionately, taking sips straight from their coke bottles (drinking out of glasses is for wimps) and sneezing occasionally as the gas tickles their noses.

Yes, apparently it's THAT kind of conversation; the "so, how did you get into this unlife" kind you invariably slip into when all the current gossip has been dealt with and the sugar from the coke in your system finallybegins to have an effect on your inhibitions. If you're Nosferatu, that is.

"The Becoming was terrible," the thin Nosferatu goes on. His name is Joshua. He's the newest addition to the Clan, embraced only two months ago. "For a while, I thought I was losing my mind. I'm not sure I didn't do lose it for a while."

Another Nosferatu reaches out a thin, taloned hand and pats Joshua's bony shoulder. "We weren't sure either," he rasps with an abnormally hoarse voice. "Camilla was about to put you out of your misery, yanno." He grins, showing yellow pointed teeth. "Good thing she didn't. You've been doin' an excellent job on the re-buildin' of the safehouse, Josh." He holds his posture for a moment before softening his grin. "And you're a pretty good fuck-buddy as well."

The others snicker.

Instead of being offended, Joshua merely smiles. "Thanks, Freddy. So're you."

Frederick preens. "Of course I am. Decades of practice. Strictly goin' on comparative evidence, I'd say I'm the best fuck-buddy among us."

The others look at him and then at each other. They grin, but none of them disagrees.

"Barring the Bothth, of courthe," a large Nosferatu finally lisps through protruding teeth. "No one knowth how he ith in the thack."

"That's true, Horse," Frederick concedes. "But he sure doesn't get a lot of practice, poor sod. Anybody remember the last time he got any? Apart from that thing with the thinger, sorry, Horse, singer."

They look at each other. It's a rhetorical question, really. Their Primogen's personal life, or lack thereof, has been a hotly debated topic during many a night before this one, and no certainties were ever gained.

"How old IS he, anyway?" Joshua asks with his melodious voice so at odds with his Nosferatu appearance. "I've been wondering about that ever since he welcomed me into the Clan. I mean, who but an Elder would go by a name like 'Daedalus'?"

Frederick, who's Daedalus's second and thus privy to a little more inside scoop than the average Nosferatu, permits himself a mysterious smile. It looks incongruous on his Roswell alien face. "No one knows for sure, Josh," he rasps. "But there's rumors that he's THE Daedalus. Yanno, the one whose son flew too close to the sun. The Greek inventor."

Fox, who's been quietly guzzling her coke this whole time, gapes. "No shit?" she says, putting down her coke bottle. "But that'd mean he's, like, three thousand years old!" She sneezes a few times as if to emphasize this point.

Horse nods. "We don't have any evidenthe. But Rothwell here thayth that apparently there wath a thertain converthation between the Bothth and Hith Exthellenthy a few nightth ago whereupon the Printhe thuddenly went all deferential around the Bothth for all of two hourth. We're gueththing the Bothth told him then."

"Pity none of us was there," Fox interjects.

"In the Prince's study?" Frederick rasps. "Not a good idea. His Auspex is almost as good as that of a Toreador. Not to mention the Boss's. No one really knows the full extent of HIS powers, and I certainly wouldn't want to be caught eavesdroppin' by him."

There's a moment of silence during which the visible Nosferatu turn to one of the apparently empty spaces. "Well, Sire?" Frederick rasps. "Care to corroborate or refute?"

"You've asked me that before, Childe," a deep, rumbling voice says out of thin air. Gary, who prefers to keep his hulking, wart-covered body out of normal sight, sounds bored with the subject. "What good would it do to know? Besides, you know very well it's not polite to ask about these things."

"He knows," Frederick states with a nod at the empty space. "Three crates of coke says he's known all along. He may even know how the Boss is between the sheets. Lord knows they've known each other for long enough."

"Stop talking about me as if I'm not here," Gary rumbles.

"Well, it's hard not to, seein' as how we're not really seein' you, Sire."

The empty space maintains a dignified silence.

"Have you asked Camilla?" Joshua asks. "She and the Boss do go way back. She once mentioned she already knew him in Europe.

The others consider this for a moment.

"Think they had a thing?" Frederick muses.

"They'd sure make a pretty pair," Horse agrees.

"No way," Fox says. "The Boss prefers to seek his thrills outside of the Clan."

"That's one way of putting it," Skip says. "But it's true. If he didn't, our resident King of Fuck-Buddies here would have told us all about it long before now," he adds, jabbing a friendly elbow into Frederick's side. "After all, who could resist those large Roswell eyes?"

The others snicker.

"Shut up, Skip," Frederick rasps good-naturedly. "And as far as that goes, I haven't given up hope completely..."

"But we don't even know if the Bothth thwingth that way," Horse objects.

"Of course he does," Frederick says with the air of one who knows. "Greek, remember?"

"IF that's true," Fox says.

"There was that one time he got moony-eyed over that young painter, remember?" Skip says. "Kept following him around for almost half a year, when was it - in 1912, I think."

"That's before my time," Fox says, and Joshua, the fledgling, merely looks from one to the other.

"It'th true, though," Horse concedes. "Tho, we're too ugly for him, then."

There's another moment of silence.

"He's like a Toreador sometimes," Skip muses. "He paints, he pines for beauty, he shuns his own Clan..."

"But he must have chosen this existence," Joshua says. "I mean... we don't embrace without consent, right?"

The Nosferatu look from one to the other. Each of them has been given a choice - death or unlife among the Sewer Rats. And every single one of them didn't want to die.

"Probably was embraced out of spite," Frederick speculates. "The Traditions didn't come into force until the Middle Ages. It was a bit different back in the day."

"Oh yes," Gary's disembodied voice agrees. "We chose our childer by their merit back then, not by their wishes, until we realized that such doesn't exactly encourage loyalty to one's Sire."

"Tho, he'th a Cleopatra," Horse says, referring to those Nosferatu who tend to be beautiful, prideful mortals in their Warm days. Most of them are embraced merely so their sire can teach them a lesson about humility. "It'th a miracle he didn't go inthane."

"Or into Torpor."

"We don't know that," Fox corrects Frederick. "If he's really so old, he might have skipped centuries sleeping."

"No, I don't think so," Gary finally joins the speculation. "We've had lots of talk about historic events over the decades, he and I. He doesn't have any gaps."

"That merely proves he's got a good library," Fox says. "And that, we do know."

The other Nosferatu nod. Daedalus's library is indeed extensive, and he's often consulted by Nosferatu warren chiefs of other cities because of that.

There's another minute during which the Nosferatu mull on what they've heard. Now and then, a quiet sneeze breaks the silence.

"Pity we don't know anything," Skip finally says.

"And pity he never comes down here to guzzle some coke with us," Frederick adds. "I'd even lug his wine for him if it'd help."

"That's very kind of you, Frederick, but I brought my own."

They freeze. And then there's a wide grin on each disfigured face as the Nosferatu Primogen fades into normal view, seated at the next table. The two empty wine bottles that appear in front of him prove that he's been here for some time.

"Blimey, and there's the man himself," Frederick rasps without missing a beat. "So, how about it, Boss? Care to enlighten us, in the interest of complete factual information and all that?"

Daedalus rises, gathering his glass and the bottles with a faint clink. "Maybe another time. It's a long story, and you've managed to while away the whole night already."

"Promise?" Frederick needles, and the other Nosferatus' faces mirror his enthusiasm.

Daedalus stares at each of them in turn with his characteristically stony expression. "If you insist. But don't say I didn't warn you. It's a lot less exciting than you might expect."

"Coool, Boss. Tomorrow?"

Clear gray eyes fix on him. "All in good time, Frederick."

"Everything? All the juicy bits? The whole moley?"

"You will have to take what you can get," Daedalus admonishes his second over the muttered chidings courtesy of Gary, who's still invisible. "And now I bid each of you a restful day."

The Nosferatu stare at the cave entrance where their Primogen disappeared into the darkness of the tunnels beyond.

"Think he'll do it?" Joshua finally breaks the silence.

Frederick grins. "I sure hope so, Josh. I sure hope so. He did promise." His grin widens. "I wanna hear some ancient Greek dirty jokes, at the very least."


	3. Daedalus

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, no money gained.

**Author's Notes:** Each of these chapters is written in a different style. This is not something I planned, nor something I could keep from happening. Also, these pieces just seem to be there, waiting for me to write them down.

This chapter is an attempt to get into Daedalus's head - I hope he doesn't mind.

* * *

I still remember his eyes. 

There were surprisingly normal-looking in a face that otherwise had not much in common with a human countenance. I have a vague impression of scales, and horns, and a strong brow; but those memories are faded, nebulous. The only thing that's still clear in my mind even after all these centuries is his eyes.

The details of my Embrace, arguably the most momentous moment of my existence, both living and undead, are lost to me now. I recall neither the Embrace itself nor the time after I was forced to drink the blood of my Sire. Whenever I try to find those memories within me, all I encounter is a blank and a vague sense of horror. I can but conclude that I've blocked everything that happened during that time, erased it from my mind the way I've slashed paintings or smashed statues that I considered too horrific to look at.

But I still remember his eyes, and that they never changed. There was always this expression of cold, mocking disdain in them, no matter what he was doing or saying, or what was happening around him. They never changed - not even when I bared my teeth to sink them into his neck while he was savaging me in our fight to Final Death.

I can remember details from the time when he was no more, whole episodes of things I did back on Crete when I was finally free, and I can recall most of my mortal life, but nothing except bits and pieces from the time between. A cave, water, chains, bones, some confused images of swords and torches. Not even his voice, although I know he must have talked to me, if only to call me names and to mock me. I remember his name, so he must have told me that at least, a single word he must have spoken to me at one time. But I don't remember his voice.

Even now as I'm sitting here in my haven, driven once more thinking about what I haven't thought about in ages by the recent conversations I had with Julian and with my clanmates, trying to recall that time leaves me restless, filled with a mixture of fury and despair, and a sense of futility. It's probably a good thing that I've forgotten.

Memories are wonderful things. Even at the best of times, they are never absolute. Two Nosferatu witnessing the same event will invariably tell two different versions of it, no matter how good their powers of observation or recall. Things they don't notice will be as if they never happened. Colors, words, sequences of events get changed, and without memory aids, no one will be able to tell who, if anyone, is correct. And, of course, memories are also altered by some unconscious design within ourselves, be it to protect us from their horror, or because some things are too momentous to comprehend.

My Embrace certainly qualifies as both.

I do know that it must have happened without my consent, because I don't recall having been asked. I also know that my Becoming must have been painful, horrible, nearly unbearable, but only because I recall hating my Sire because of it - not because I actually remember dying, losing my long dark hair, or experiencing the disfiguring changes I must have suffered. I've since seen Nosferatu fledglings go through the Change while their Sires were there to comfort them, to explain what's happening, and still they suffer, sometimes more than their minds can handle, so I know what I must have gone through (and I certainly had no one at my side for comfort or explanation). But it's gone as if it never happened.

That is not all I've forgotten. I certainly was not strong enough to destroy my Sire immediately after my Embrace. Decades must have passed, centuries maybe, before I finally gathered my fury, shame, and utter hatred for him and turned them into the destructive force that drove my talons and teeth into him. Decades that are simply gone from my mind. All that's left is a memory of recalling a memory.

And when I recall his eyes, those cold, mocking eyes, the only thing that is still there of him in my mind, I'm glad.


End file.
